


Iaomai (To Make Whole)

by EvanHart



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:48:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23988397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvanHart/pseuds/EvanHart
Summary: The bard is not an angel, Geralt knows this. He’s not a god, or a mythical creature, or holy, but still -Still.Jaskier is good. And he touches -fuck, he’s always touching. Caressing Geralt’s shoulders, hands dancing across old scars, draping himself against the Witcher’s side every time they make camp. So maybe - maybe the bard isn’t the purest thing to exist. Maybe he’s notalllight and laughter. But sometimes...Sometimes, his touch makes Geralt feel like something to becherished.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 42
Kudos: 1176
Collections: wiedźmin





	Iaomai (To Make Whole)

**Author's Note:**

> *DISCLAIMER*
> 
> Before we get started, I’d just like to say that I own none of these characters or the work that this AU is based on. The Witcher was created by Andrzej Sapkowski, and I do not claim any ownership over it or the books, TV series, movies, or games; nor the world of The Witcher. This is purely creative and not for profit.

In Posada, Geralt acquires a bard.

Well. 

_Acquires_ isn’t exactly the right word.

The bard sticks to him like glue, refuses to leave no matter how hard he tries. It would be impressive, if it weren’t for the bard’s annoying habit of singing at all hours of the day and getting himself into scraps. Geralt tries to shake him off – leaves inns in the middle of the night, sneaks away from their camp once the bard is asleep, heads out on hunts with no intention of returning to the town; but even if they’re separated for a day, a few weeks, or a month - the bard always finds him again, chattering away as if nothing has happened.

So, in essence, Geralt doesn’t acquire a bard. The bard acquires _him_.

The bard is not an angel, Geralt knows this. He’s not a god, or a mythical creature, or holy, but still -

_Still._

Jaskier is good. And he touches - _fuck_ , he’s always touching. Caressing Geralt’s shoulders, hands dancing across old scars, draping himself against the Witcher’s side every time they make camp. So maybe - maybe the bard isn’t the purest thing to exist. Maybe he’s not _all_ light and laughter. But sometimes...

Sometimes, his touch makes Geralt feel like something to be _cherished._

The touches sting, in a way. They’re soft and gentle and always caring, and it’s something that Geralt isn’t used to. They’re not the pressing hands, hurling fists at him in taverns; or the brushing shoulders and fleeting glances along his sides as he moves through a town or settlement. Those touches are unwelcome, unsettling – painful. 

Jaskier’s touching is painful too, in a way, but a _good_ pain. The kind of pain that comes after picking off an irritating scab, the ache after eating too much rich food, the tears that form after laughing too much.

The touches _linger_ , too, they stay, his skin almost burning for hours afterwards as if Jaskier is _still_ touching him. The scent of the bard stays on his skin, mingles with his belongings, takes over and melds with his own scent. He finds he doesn’t mind it as much as he should, and finds he minds the touching even less.

It’s the pull of fingers carding through his hair, untangling every knot he finds and braiding the strands back to keep them out of Geralt’s face. The tenderness of his knuckles brushing against Geralt’s cheek, tracing the dark veins that come from taking his potions and that turn his eyes black, the pupil bleeding out to cover the white and yellow and red. It’s the gentle press of hands holding skin together as he stitches up a wound; the heat emanating from the bard’s side as he settles himself over Geralt’s shoulder. It’s warm and comforting and downright _confusing._

And Geralt wants _more._

He doesn’t understand it, doesn’t know why he craves the touch – from the bard, of all people. He can fuck whores and punch men and it doesn’t faze him, but as soon as the bard touches him with no ulterior motive his skin is crawling and craving that touch again. 

It’s easier, sometimes, when the bard asks for favours. When he pets and pampers and treats Geralt to all the delights of a long bath or a massage, and requests protection or company in return. It’s easier, then, to accept that this is a transaction. An agreement. That Jaskier is doing this to gain something else, some sort of repayment. _That_ Geralt can understand.

* * *

He asked, once.

One night after they’d made camp and Jaskier had insisted – as he always does – to be allowed to help Geralt remove his armour. He sits there, motionless, as the bard’s nimble fingers unbuckle the straps of his braces, unlacing his vanguards and carefully removing his cuirass, setting it down in an organised heap next to Roach’s saddlebags – as he always does. Geralt is tense, more so than usual, the words sitting on the tip of his tongue threatening to spill.

“Why?” he blurts out, and immediately curses himself and his lack of tact when Jaskier halts his gentle ministrations to pull back and look him in the eye, crouched before him with his doublet unlaced and chemise proudly on display.

“Why what?” he asks, eyebrows raised, but there’s no mockery in his voice.

Geralt doesn’t answer, _can’t_ answer, for well over a minute. He doesn’t know how to make sense of the thoughts swirling inside his head, doesn’t know how to articulate what he feels and what he wants. Jaskier makes no move to prod him, sitting back on his haunches patiently and quietly as he never is, except when he knows Geralt needs the quiet, or needs the space. And _fuck,_ that’s another good question, actually.

He gives up on trying to be coherent. Jaskier can usually understand him, can decipher his grunts and hums and expressions better than any other. He’ll be able to understand this.

“You,” he says, in lieu of trying to explain himself. “You, here. With me.”

The bard chuckles, shaking his head a little. “Oh, Geralt.” There’s a hand on his knee, then, warm and reassuring and grounding. “You have to know by now.”

Geralt doesn’t. He really, _really_ , doesn’t.

But he lets it go.

* * *

They continue the way they always have, Geralt taking contracts and hunting monsters and tending his swords, Jaskier singing and performing and still, always, touching him. They sleep in rundown inns and eat shitty food and drink even shittier ale, and sometimes they split up for a few weeks, or months, but they always find their way back to each other and the cycle continues.

Geralt’s not tried to ask about Jaskier or the touching or his company since that night, years ago, and Jaskier has never brought it up again either. They stay the same as they always have, Geralt half-heartedly telling the bard to leave and Jaskier always resolutely ignoring him.

He sees Jaskier, once, in the alley behind an inn as he’s going to check on Roach, to make sure that she’s safe for the night.

The woman’s skirts obscure most of the view, but the sounds and smells and positions are enough to tell him what’s happening. Jaskier’s hair peeks out, his face buried between the woman’s thighs, hands holding her hips as she trembles and moans above him.

A flash of something bitter twangs through Geralt, as sharp as the edge of his swords, and he’s overcome by what _must_ be jealousy. He’s not felt it like this before, he’d thought it had been trained out of him.

The woman makes a noise like a gasp and suddenly Geralt realises that he wants to be in her position, or in Jaskier’s position, as long as the bard is the other one in the equation – hands grabbing and sweet sounds pulled from his throat and those fingers _everywhere_.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts when the woman arches her back, eyes opening and staring blankly, but Geralt hurries away before she sees him, not noticing how tense he is or how hard he’s clenching his hands until he goes to pet Roach and is met with a fist, that he slowly uncurls in order to run his palm down her neck. There’s a tremor there, in his hand, that he tries in vain to stop, breathing as evenly as he can and confining all thoughts and memories of what he’d just seen to a corner of his mind that he never enters, safely stored away with memories of Renfri and his mother and the Trials. 

Roach bumps his chest, her nose a cool spot through the fabric of his shirt. 

“Thanks, Roach,” he sighs, rubbing under her forelock in the same way he’s always done, trying not to think about how Jaskier scratches his head like that too, both horse and master soothed by the same motion. 

He stays in the stable for a while, half-meditating in order to keep his mind clear before he leaves, going straight back to the room at the inn they’ve rented together with no coin to be able to afford a second. Jaskier is already there when he arrives, looking up at his entrance, eyes bright and a happy smile on his face.

“Geralt!” he exclaims, springing up from the bed and ushering him over to the bath that had been brought up in his absence. “Come on, come on. Undress, now, we don’t want your clothes getting wet. That’s it.”

Geralt does as he’s told, methodically stripping off his shirt and his boots and breeches and underclothes, watching as the bard flits around excitedly, humming to himself while grabbing some of his salts and oils. Geralt steps into the water, still surprisingly hot, and sinks down into it with a satisfied groan, closing his eyes and relaxing against the edge of the tub.

“That’s it, darling,” Jaskier soothes, and Geralt doesn’t even bother to open his eyes again at the feeling of fingers running over his shoulders, brushing hair away from the nape of his neck. “I’ve had the _loveliest_ evening,” the bard continues, prattling away like he always does. “I played for the crowd, as you know, and they gave me quite a bit of coin, which is always appreciated. And then the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen tugged me out into the alley, and _oh_ , Geralt, that was pure _magic_. And then I had a wonderful talk with the innkeeper –“

Geralt hums, sinking down further against the rim of the tub and just letting the sensations of the warm water and Jaskier’s hands lull him into a sort of doze, a sense of security that he rarely affords himself anywhere else. Above him, the bard is still talking, nonsensical, unimportant words that are meant to fill the silence rather than inform. They’re a sort of comfort too, Geralt thinks, if not a physical one. The flow of words and constant speaking is easier to understand, easier to get a grasp on. Jaskier talks because he dislikes the quiet, dislikes the awkward pauses and long silences that Geralt prefers, if only because he often finds he doesn’t know what to say.

Or, if he does, then doesn’t know _how_ to say it.

And so, they go on.

* * *

Yennefer is easier to understand.

He knows what she wants, what she craves, even before he binds her to him with that ill-planned Djinn wish.

Jaskier had gotten hurt.

It’s his fault, he knows it is – Djinns are known to warp the wishes and change them into something awful, something horrible. It’s his fault that Jaskier is slumped against him on Roach, his fault that the abscess swells and cuts off the bard’s air supply and forces blood to spill from his lips.

The copper scent is overwhelming, and it’s a smell he _never_ wants to associate with Jaskier ever again.

So, he finds an elf healer, and, when he can’t help, he goes and finds a mage.

Yennefer heals Jaskier, and Geralt fucks Yennefer in the ruins of the collapsed manor house.

There’s more to it than that, complex and stirring and far too much for Geralt to sort out, but he thinks that this might be _love_. He thinks that maybe, for the first time, he’s found someone who can love him back, who can handle him and hold their own. 

But Yennefer, he knows, is not one for long commitment, is not one to be held back by any man, regardless of whether he’s a mutant or not. 

Geralt goes.

He finds Jaskier, safe and unharmed, lute and pack retrieved from the countess or whomever, waiting with the elf healer. There’s dried blood on his lips and chin, splattered across his shirt, and Geralt has the sudden urge to reach out, to wipe away the traces of blood and burn the shirt so he doesn’t have to smell the copper still lingering on the bard’s skin, on his clothes.

But he doesn’t. 

It’s been a confusing day – rough and exhausting and infuriating and explosive. All he wants to do now is find a place to settle down for the night, and sleep until morning. He finds Roach, collects his things and leaves the house behind, Jaskier tagging along behind him – quiet, but still there.

They make camp a good four hour’s walk away from the town, unwilling to cause any more havoc that could get the already irate villagers to throw them out, or worse, attack. Geralt builds a fire and sits, closing his eyes, and… nothing happens.

He blinks, wondering at himself and the expectation he’s feeling, gaze drawn to Jaskier who’s shuffling uncomfortably across the flickering flames, picking at the blood staining his shirt.

It’s then that Geralt realises that he’s expecting Jaskier to help remove his armour, to comb through his hair, settle down far too close to Geralt in the way that he does that anyone else would immediately be killed over. Instead, the bard stays away, barely looking up when Geralt stands to do he work himself.

He’s not sure when it had become such a habit for him to let the bard undertake the actions he can easily do himself, or when he had become so comfortable with them that it feels strange, now, to do them himself. He does it anyway, because he’s a _Witcher_ , damn it, because he gets up and carries on and survives no matter what the issue is. He doesn’t let stupid feelings and bards who outstay their welcome get to him.

They do, anyway.

Jaskier doesn’t touch him other than necessary for almost a week, and it’s almost a form of torture. He was hurt, Geralt reminds himself, and it was his fault. The bard is clever, he’s probably already worked that little piece of information out, and likely just needs some time to recuperate, to heal, to rest. It’s the only explanation that Geralt can think of, the only one that seems to _fit_.

After ten days, Jaskier touches him again. He’s been speaking more, not as quiet as he had been for the past week, but when he stands next to Geralt and starts to remove his armour he’s still silent. 

The silence is charged, electric – but despite the tension obviously there Geralt finds himself relaxing in increments, settling back into the routine that they’d cultivated after so many years together. Jaskier’s hands are still accustomed to the leather straps, the metal buckles, and even without speaking he manages to remove the armour as confidently as he used to, finishing quickly and setting the pieces in their usual pile by the saddlebags. 

Then, and _only_ then, does he start talking again the way he used to before.

And Geralt exhales gratefully, easing back into the comfort of having Jaskier with him again.

Everything returns to normal for the next six years. Jaskier touches and talks and sometimes goes off on his own, but he always comes back. Geralt hunts and speaks in as few syllables as he can and winters at Kaer Morhen, but every spring, without fail, Jaskier finds him again and they return to their comfortable rhythm. 

The bard has long since stopped bothering Geralt. He’s still annoying and overeager and he touches Geralt more than _anyone_ ever has and he talks his ear off, but he’s surprisingly fine with it. He doesn’t try to analyse his feelings, doesn’t try to puzzle out why that might be, just accepts it and continues. Geralt thinks that they’re alright again, that everything is as it should be. 

And then comes the mountain. And Yennefer. And the dragon hunt. And then – 

Then. 

Jaskier leaves. 

Maybe not so much leaves as _beats a hasty retreat_ , but he leaves all the same. Geralt knows it’s his fault, knows he shouldn’t have lashed out - but by the time he’s come to his senses the bard is gone. That night, when Geralt makes camp, there’s no nimble fingers unclasping the buckles of his armour. There are no soft sighs felt against his shoulder. And Geralt realises - for the first time in twenty years - that the bard won’t be coming back this time. 

He’s well and truly alone.

So, he goes, out into the world.

* * *

The threat of Nilfgaard looms over the continent, the shadow long and dark. He goes and finds Ciri, tries not to think about how proud Jaskier would be that he’s finally found her. Or, more accurately, that _she_ finds _him_.

Ciri touches him, too. She’s scared, at first. He knows she trusts him, but that has more to do with her grandmother’s final words than him. Slowly, though, the sour stench of fear that hangs around her starts to dissipate, around him at least. There are still times when it spikes, sharp and salty and rising whenever they step foot into a town, whenever soldiers pass them on the road. 

And still, she touches him.

It’s not the same as when Jaskier would do it. It’s gentle, yes, and caring – but it’s not the same. She doesn’t help him with his armour, or massage his shoulders and brush his hair when he’s in the bath. The touches are smaller, filled with childlike innocence and the need for a protector, for comfort. The touches aren’t there to comfort _him_ , but they do.

He lets her braid his hair, once, and the pain of remembering different fingers making the same motions is enough for him to pull away, distance himself for a few days, Ciri doesn’t understand, though, and asks if she can do it again. 

And again.

And _again_.

He lets her.

She talks, not as much as Jaskier had, but it’s a good distraction anyhow. She asks about monsters and his hunts and what other Witchers are like, quizzes him on sword fighting and her parents and flowers and anything she can think of, and it calms him in ways he hadn’t thought were possible. It’s not enough, it’s never enough – but it’s something.

“What’s their name?” she asks one evening, watching Geralt over the fire that she’s managed to build herself, a point of pride and achievement that had left her grinning all through their meal.

Geralt looks at her. “Whose name?”

“The person you lost,” she says then, and he’s shaken to the core by that statement, suddenly remembering that she’s clever, and observant.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he grits out, in a hopeless attempt to make her drop it.

Ciri hums, a habit he’s sure she’s picked up from him in the couple months that they’ve been together. She stares at him, assessing, and it’s a little unnerving. “You act like you’re searching for someone,” she says after a moment of silence. “You look around in taverns and inns, and when something funny or strange happens you see me and look as if you’re expecting someone else.” She pauses, shifting on her bedroll. “You’re sad, too.”

Geralt scowls at her, but she’s learned not to be afraid of him.

“You are,” she insists. “Sometimes you’ll hear a song and you’ll get this faraway look in your eyes, or you’ll stare into space after you take off your armour.”

He hadn’t noticed he’d been doing that. There’s a Jaskier-shaped gap wherever he goes, now, but he hadn’t noticed how much that had bled through into his actions.

Ciri is still watching him carefully, and he sighs and walks to her, tucking the blanket in around her bedroll. “It’s nothing,” he tells her, and sees immediately that she doesn’t believe him, opening her mouth to protest. “Just leave it,” he says, and his voice is tired and resigned. “ _Please_.”

Her mouth snaps shut, and she doesn’t mention it again.

They find Yennefer, too, still hurt and depleted from her stand at Sodden Hill, but every bit as fierce and determined as Geralt remembers her. He thinks that maybe now the hole inside of him will be filled, the aching cavity in his chest will be satisfied – but it isn’t.

Things are awkward between them, at first, but Ciri seems immune to their problems and drags Yennefer farther out of her shell, coaxing the mage into helping her braid Geralt’s hair and winding flowers into Roach’s mane, yellow buttercups and dandelions that physically hurt Geralt to look at.

Ciri is safe, Yennefer is here, but Jaskier _haunts_ his whole being.

He and Yennefer talk, sort things out, and they’re all better for it. He loves her, knows enough now to be able to identify that feeling, but it’s faded from the intense passion of their first meeting and has settled into something smaller, something safe and comfortable and platonic. A part of his heart will always belong to her, and maybe a part of hers will always belong to him, but it’s not the part that matters most. Not the part that leaves him awake and yearning and _aching_ for someone who he was stupid enough to push away.

And it fucking _hurts_.

He feels guilty, sometimes, that although he finally has Ciri in his life and that Yennefer has a child to love and that the three of them are safe together, he still has that gaping hole in his very _soul_ that demands to be filled, the one that he tries to push away, ignore for as long as possible, the one that stings and throbs and is pure fucking _agony_ whenever he so much as thinks about it.

Yennefer notices, because of course she does, but he manages to keep her from bringing it up again, and they continue the way they had been, acquiring an additional horse for Yennefer and Ciri, moving from town to village to town again as inconspicuously as possible, never staying in one place for more than a single night.

Nilfgaard finds them.

Geralt thinks about Jaskier and the hole in his heart less, now, prioritising Ciri’s safety more than anything. He takes her to Kaer Morhen, makes sure she’s safe and comfortable and is able to train and learn in peace without fear. His task fulfilled, he has nowhere to cast his mind again, nothing to distract him during the long winter nights.

When spring arrives, Yennefer confronts him again, and this time brings Vesemir with her.

They tear Geralt a new one, and even Ciri pushes him towards the stables, telling him to get on Roach and go back out into the world, back onto the Path. He’s been restless, they tell him, and they don’t like seeing him like this. Yennefer presses a xenovox into his hand, Vesemir claps him on the shoulder, and Ciri hugs him tightly. He goes.

He returns to the Path, hunting monsters and avoiding Nilfgaard, content to just be a Witcher again, nothing more, nothing less. He kills wyverns and bloedzuigers and drowners and even a fiend, on one memorable occasion, and the days blur and blend together as spring fades into summer. He does what he’s always done, secure in the knowledge that Ciri is _safe_ and sound at Kaer Morhen in the care of Yennefer and Vesemir, and that come winter he’ll return and be able to see her again, see how she’s grown and what she’s learned.

And, if at every tavern and inn, he asks about a certain bard – that’s nobody’s business but his own.

Summer has set in full and hot and heavy on the continent as he rides into a small town on the outskirts of Temeria, exhausted and hungry and nursing a wound on his side from a particularly nasty ghoul, guiding Roach to the stables next to a tavern and ensuring that she’s settled before making his way to the tavern, freezing outside of the door as his ears pick up the distinct sound of a lute.

He hears him before he sees him, pushing the door open slowly and entering the building as quietly as he can, a clear, soft voice rising to join the instrument in song.

 _There_ , his hair slightly longer than before, his clothes still as rich and ridiculous as ever, the elven lute grasped carefully in slender hands – sits Jaskier.

He looks tired, bags under his eyes and the spark in his cornflower-blue (and he has to thank Ciri for _that_ analogy, she’d somehow convinced him during one of her many questions and explanations that flowers were the best simile for colour) eyes has almost diminished, replaced by tired resignation and hollows in his cheeks that weren’t there before. 

The war has been hard on everyone, he supposes, but somehow Jaskier has found a way to survive.

Geralt almost wants to leave, wants to walk away and not talk to the bard, not risk making the man’s life any worse than it has been. He’d hurt him, he knew, hurt him with his words and actions and he’s been suffering the consequences ever since. Maybe, he thinks, maybe it’s better if he stays away.

Something tells him _not_ to leave, though. Something inside of his heart reminds him of the touches, the words, the kindness that Jaskier had brought him, the things that he could have again.

So, he stays.

And Jaskier sees him and waits for him to say something but Geralt just _can’t_ and so Jaskier sighs and pushes a tankard of ale towards him, settling in across the table.

Maybe there are no grand gestures, maybe nothing needs to be said. Maybe - maybe this is what forgiveness is.

* * *

Jaskier is with him again and that’s all that should matter, the empty feeling in Geralt slowly filling back up with something that he thinks must be joy, and comfort, and all things good. Jaskier is back with him and everything is right in the world.

Except it’s _not_.

Jaskier doesn’t touch him.

It’s worse than it was after the Djinn. Jaskier helps him remove his armour, stitches up any wounds he acquires, steadies him when the potions he’s taken don’t wear off quickly enough. 

But Jaskier doesn’t _touch_ him.

Jaskier doesn’t touch him - not more than what needs to be done; cleaning wounds and offering support if needed but nothing more – no baths, no hair braiding, no reclining against him. It’s not the same, the touches are fleeting and required, not pressed into his skin with soft words, not kindly offered with no expectations in return. 

So maybe Jaskier _hasn’t_ forgiven him.

He tries to convince himself that his company is enough, that just having Jaskier here with him again is all that he needs. It’s a futile effort, he feels too hollow, the empty feeling that he thought had been filled with Jaskier’s return making its presence known again. There’s something else, too, something dark and painful and impossible for Geralt to put a name to. It’s all-encompassing, and it seems to stem from whatever the problem is with Jaskier.

He’s determined to fix it.

He has no idea how, exactly, but he’ll figure _something_ out. The bard is quieter, now, too – and that’s another problem. Geralt does not know how to address it, remembering Jaskier’s easy way with his touches and his words and knowing that he will never be able to replicate that, to do it as well as the bard does.

But he tries anyways.

A hand on the small of Jaskier’s back to steady him in a crowded tavern, a tap on the shoulder to alert him of his presence. Small things, far smaller than some of the grand gestures and all-encompassing embraces Jaskier used to give him, but they’re all he can stomach for now, all he can do without worrying that he’s overwhelming the bard. 

Jaskier doesn’t reciprocate, but sometimes he leans into the touches. Sometimes Geralt catches something strange flicker over his expression, clearing too quickly to read. It’s not what Geralt wants, it’s still not _enough_ , but it’s a start.

So, they travel onwards as normal – or as close to normal as they can.

The summer days pass and start to get cooler, the first leaves turning from green to yellow to red and dropping from the trees, crunching underneath Roach’s hooves and Jaskier’s boots as they trek onwards, slowly making their way back north and towards Kaer Morhen, winding through forests and towns and clearing out monsters as they go, earning coin in taverns and continuing their journey in relative peace.

They still haven’t talked about it, haven’t talked about the argument on the mountaintop that wasn’t so much an argument as a one-sided rebuttal, haven’t talked about what will happen when winter truly comes. Geralt wants Jaskier with him – _forever_ , if possible – but at the very least for the foreseeable future, wants him to travel with him to Kaer Morhen and introduce him to Ciri.

He hasn’t said any of this.

* * *

The town they’re in now is only about a week’s travel away from Kaer Morhen, and he thinks that maybe now, with the first snows of late autumn starting to fall, it’s a good time to talk about it.

They find an inn in one of the small villages and prepare to settle in for the night, Geralt steeling himself against the onslaught of emotions and words that he has to say, has to get out sooner rather than later. They’re just heading towards the stairs when one of the villagers stops him.

Apparently a kikimora has made its home in the swamp a few miles east of the village, killing passing travelers and livestock and being a general menace. This far north, it’s likely to be small and starving, weak – and he finds he can’t turn down the meager sum the villagers offer in their plight, nor can he ignore the beseeching look Jaskier gives him when he hears. 

The conversation can wait until a later time, Geralt spends the night meditating and preparing instead, listening to the steady sounds of Jaskier’s breathing and the rhythmic pounding of his heart.

He takes his silver sword and swallows some potions, attaching the rest of his belongings to Roach’s saddle. Jaskier comes with him, his own things in tow, and Geralt can’t find it in him to tell the bard to stay away. He’s tried, before, many years ago, and it _never_ worked. So, Jaskier tags along.

It’s late in the morning when they reach the area of the attacks, the ground hard and frozen but still marshy enough to prove a hindrance. They continue onwards a little further, until the ground changes from solid to soft, the swamp spreading out before them.

“Stay here,” Geralt orders, swinging off of Roach and unsheathing his sword, checking to make sure his armour is in place. Next to Roach, Jaskier looks like he wants to argue, but something in Geralt’s expression must make him think better of it, because all he does is nod in agreement.

Satisfied, Geralt turns to make his way further into the swampland, only making it all of five steps before the water explodes in front of him, the kikimora hurtling towards him at full speed.

He hears Roach’s loud whinny and Jaskier’s panicked yell, shouting for them to get back as he steps towards the monster. It’s bigger than he was expecting, but no less hungry, and it manages to drag him under the water with surprising ease.

The sounds below the surface are muted, and Geralt definitely didn’t have sufficient time to inhale enough to stay underwater for more than about a minute, but he’s able to hold onto his sword and thrusts it blindly, the distant crunch and loud shriek alerting him that he’s probably hit something important, but before he can try and replicate the action one of the beast’s legs pins him to the bottom of the swamp, arm held down with no range of motion beneath the murky water.

His air is just about to start running out when the thing shrieks again and the pressure on him lifts, allowing him to push up to the surface and take a desperately-needed breath, only for all the air to rush back out of him when he sees Jaskier, standing at the shoreline and holding the splinters of what must have been his lute – watching in horror as the kikimora looks at him with the eye that doesn’t currently have a sharp piece of broken wood through it. 

Time seems to stop for a few seconds as all four beings in the clearing remain still, the moment shattering as the kikimora lets out an ear-piercing screech and rushes at Jaskier, Geralt shouting and reaching out to cast Igni and force it away, but too late as Jaskier _screams_ , long and broken, one of the kikimora’s talons impaling him through the abdomen.

Geralt sees _red_.

When he comes back to his senses the kikimora is dead, lying prone at the edge of the swamp with its head very nearly hacked from its body. Geralt doesn’t spare it another glance, instead rushing towards where he sees Roach, Jaskier on the ground in a puddle of blood not too far away.

He’s gasping for breath when Geralt tosses his sword aside and drops to his knees beside him, and that’s good, that means he’s still alive, still fighting. His bright blue eyes flicker up to meet his yellow ones, and they’re full of fear and pain and everything that Geralt doesn’t _ever_ want to see in his bard’s eyes.

“Geralt…” he manages to gasp out, voice breaking, and it’s enough to get Geralt moving, vision roving to Jaskier’s abdomen and the gaping _hole_ there that so ironically matches what Geralt has felt the last year and a half without him, but this one is physical and bloody and so hideous that it hurts to look at. 

“You’re going to be alright,” he grits out, hands reaching for Roach who’s obligingly come nearer, grabbing his pack and racing to press a spare shirt against the would, resolutely ignoring how much his hands tremble or the pressure building behind his eyes. “You’re going to be alright, it will all be _fine_.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier says again, and his voice is softer now, fading, one hand reaching out weakly to clutch at Geralt’s arm. “Geralt, look at me.” 

So Geralt does.

And it hurts, this sort of touching. He’d been wanting it this whole time, _needing_ it, and now that he has it, he hates it. He doesn’t want to touch Jaskier like this, not with bloodstained hands and a ragged wound torn through the bard’s abdomen.

“It’s alright,” Jaskier says, and this time it’s so quiet that if Geralt weren’t a Witcher, he doubts he could have made it out. “It’s alright. You can let go.”

“ _No_!” Geralt shouts, surprised at his own vehemence. He shakes his head violently, the pressure behind his eyes nearly unbearable. He wishes he could cry, now, wishes that he could relieve some of that pressure and make Jaskier see how much this is hurting him (he can’t, though, the mutations burned the ability to form tears right out of him). “No, you can’t.” His voice is gasping, but Jaskier is still hanging on, still looking at him with those eyes that have always shone with affection and kindness and adoration and– 

And he can recognize it now, the feeling that he’s had and the thing that he’s never understood about Jaskier, the realisation now sliding the last puzzle piece into place.

Jaskier is looking at him with _love_.

That’s what tips Geralt over the edge, what makes him lift one hand – red, now, covered in the bard’s blood – to clutch at Jaskier’s holding tightly as if it will stop death from taking him away. “You can’t,” he says again, cracking on the second word. “You can’t, you _can’t_. I can’t lose you _again_.”

His bard’s eyes widen slightly, and it’s enough to know that he’s heard him, that he understands what Geralt is trying to say even if he doesn’t know how to articulate it. He opens his mouth, one final effort to respond, but all that comes out is a dribble of blood, starkly similar to the way it had with the Djinn. He coughs, then, wet and harsh, squeezing Geralt’s hand with the last of his strength as his eyes start to flutter shut.

Geralt roars.

He doesn’t notice he’s gripping the xenovox Yennefer had given him, doesn’t notice the portal opening up a few feet away, doesn’t realise that Yennefer is there until his voice is practically gone and Vesemir hauls him to his feet, holding him back as Yennefer spreads her hands, glowing with magic and power, over Jaskier’s body. He doesn’t fully remember what happens, then, keeping his eyes locked on his bard’s face, even as the portal encapsulates them and the ground is replaced with brick and stone, even as Yennefer barks orders for Ciri to get her other xenovox, even as Triss steps through another portal and joins the other mage at Jaskier’s side.

* * *

It takes three days for Jaskier to wake up.

Geralt doesn’t move the entire time. He stays where he is, perched on a chair next to the bed that Jaskier is lying on and clutching one of his bard’s hands – his own thankfully scrubbed clean, though he imagines he can still feel the sticky wet heat of Jaskier’s blood and can smell the coppery tang under his tongue. He’s in clean clothes, too, Ciri had insisted, and he’s helpless to do whatever she asks of him.

Yennefer and Triss had disappeared the second Jaskier’s wound had closed, presumably to recuperate. It had taken a lot out of them, Ciri had informed him, but he doesn’t want to be reminded of how close he was to losing Jaskier, to losing the only constant in his life, the best thing he’d ever had.

So, he sits at his bard’s bedside and waits for him to heal.

He’s _prayed_ , even, prayed to whichever god can hear him, and taken to talking to fill the silence, regaling the unconscious man with tales of the hunts he’d been on, how he’d found Ciri, pranks that Eskel and Lambert and Coën had helped him with when they were all younger.

On the third day, he talks about Jaskier, talks about the touches and the words and the smells and the longing and heartache. He tells him about the pain, the hole in his chest, the emptiness and sorrow and regret – and suddenly Geralt finds that it’s not as hard as he was expecting, not too hard to articulate how he feels.

“I’m sorry,” he says, unsure of how much _needs_ to be said, but _wanting_ to anyways. “I’m sorry. I was a horrible friend, and I lashed out at you when I shouldn’t have. You’ve gone through so much because of me, when all you get for it is pain.” He pauses, closing his eyes and cupping Jaskier’s hand in both of his. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You do,” comes a voice, a _familiar_ voice, and although it’s faint and weak and parched Geralt would recognise that voice _anywhere_. His head whips up, fingers curling around the hand he’s still clutching and that is actually squeezing back. He looks up, straight into blue eyes that are tired, and pained – but with the signature sparkle that’s stronger than what is has been the past few months. “You _do_ ,” Jaskier repeats, and it’s only the memory of his bard’s wounds that stops Geralt from flinging himself at him.

It takes a long time for Jaskier to heal fully.

It’s a full two weeks before Triss declares him well enough to stand and walk around with the use of a cane, always leaning heavily on Geralt or Yennefer or Vesemir as he does so. He’s slow, and tires easily, but there’s a light back in his eyes and a smile on his lips and Geralt finds he can breathe easier for it.

Jaskier is delighted by Ciri, as Geralt knew he would be, and Ciri with him, and they spend hours curled up in front of various hearths and fireplaces, giggling and reading and singing, which only picks up when Yennefer steps through a portal from somewhere, a new lute in her arms that makes Jaskier practically _glow_ with happiness. 

The touching starts again, too.

It’s hesitant at first, but steadily picks up, lingering touches and pressing hands and pulling hair into braids, squeezing his hand or brushing fingers across Geralt’s arm.

The _kisses_ , though, are new.

Feather-light ones trailed across Geralt’s knuckles, soft ones pressed to his cheeks and brow and finally, _finally_ – a careful one bestowed to his lips.

Slowly, gently, Geralt starts to reciprocate – not only with the kisses (though those _always_ get an enthusiastic reaction) but with other things, too. He pulls Jaskier against his side as they’re sitting in the hall, always mindful of the tender wound in his stomach; grazes his fingers through Jaskier’s hair in a way that makes his bard’s eyelids flutter; holds his hand firmly, squeezing every now and again just to see the smile that appears whenever he does it.

The healing is slow, but steady, and when Jaskier first tells him that he loves him Geralt freezes for a full half hour, much to the amusement of everyone else in the keep. The first time he says it _back_ , though – Jaskier’s hand pressed to his chest and his eyes wide with joy, brimming with happy tears – he’s not prepared for the full-body tackle he receives, his bard throwing himself at him at top speed, launching them both onto Geralt’s bed.

He’s sure that the position must be pulling at Jaskier’s wound, must be hurting him, but his bard makes no move to pull away, pressing kisses on every inch of Geralt’s face, hands scrambling for a hold anywhere from his hair to his neck, shoulders, or arms.

Geralt breathes out a tiny “ _Jas_ ,” and then it’s all over, clothes falling in a heap beside the bed and Jaskier bracketed between Geralt’s arms and under his body, all of the skin warm and pressed against him as closely as possible. The touch is searing, burning hot, but so, _so_ good.

And _finally_ , Geralt knows that he’s truly been forgiven this time.

Now he understands what happiness is.

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to write a touch-starved fic, so here you are! Hopefully it does itself justice.


End file.
